“A little dangerous?” She laughed. “The marches in Birmingham, Martin Luther King. Dogs attacking colored children. Darling, it’s the hottest topic in the nation. But, I’m sorry, this will never work. Not as an article, because no Southern newspaper would publish it. And certainly not as a book. A book of interviews would never sell.”
“Oh,” I heard myself say. I closed my eyes, feeling all the excitement drain out of me. I heard myself say again, “Oh.”
“I called because, frankly, it’s a good idea. But . . . there’s no possible way to take it to print.”
“But . . . what if . . .” My eyes started darting around the pantry, looking for something to bring back her interest. Maybe I should talk about it as an article, maybe a magazine, but she said no—
“Eugenia, who are you talking to in there?” Mother’s voice cut though the crack. She inched the door open and I yanked it closed again. I covered the receiver, hissed, “I’m talking to Hilly, Mother—”
“In the pantry? You’re like a teenager again—”
“I mean—” Missus Stein let out a sharp tsk. “I suppose I could read what you get. God knows, the book business could use some rattling.”
“You’d do that? Oh Missus Stein . . .”
“I’m not saying I’m considering it. But... do the interview and I’ll let you know if it’s worth pursuing.”
I stuttered a few unintelligible sounds, finally coming out with, “Thank you. Missus Stein, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Call Ruth, my secretary, if you need to get in touch.” And she hung up.
I lug an Old SATCHEL to bridge club at Elizabeth’s on Wednesday. It is red. It is ugly. And for today, at least, it is a prop.
It’s the only bag in Mother’s house I could find large enough to carry the Miss Myrna letters. The leather is cracked and flaking, the thick shoulder strap leaves a brown mark on my blouse where the leather stain is rubbing off. It was my Grandmother Claire’s gardening bag. She used to carry her garden tools around the yard in it and the bottom is still lined with sunflower seeds. It matches absolutely nothing I own and I don’t care.
“Two weeks,” Hilly says to me, holding up two fingers. “He’s coming.” She smiles and I smile back. “I’ll be right back,” I say and I slip into the kitchen, carrying my satchel with me.
Aibileen is standing at the sink. “Afternoon,” she says quietly. It was a week ago that I visited her at her house.
I stand there a minute, watching her stir the iced tea, feeling the discomfort in her posture, her dread that I might be about to ask for her help on the book again. I pull a few housekeeping letters out and, seeing this, Aibileen’s shoulders relax a little. As I read her a question about mold stains, she pours a little tea in a glass, tastes it. She spoons more sugar in the pitcher.
“Oh, fore I forget, I got the answer on that water ring question. Minny say just rub you a little mayonnaise on it.” Aibileen squeezes half a lemon in the tea. “Then go on and throw that no-good husband out the door.” She stirs, tastes. “Minny don’t take too well to husbands.”
“Thanks, I’ll put that down,” I say. As casually as I can, I pull an envelope from my bag. “And here. I’ve been meaning to give you this.”
Aibileen stiffens back into her cautious pose, the one she had when I walked in. “What you got there?” she says without reaching for it.
“For your help,” I say quietly. “I’ve put away five dollars for every article. It’s up to thirty-five dollars now.”
Aibileen’s eyes move quickly back to her tea. “No thank you, ma’am.”
“Please take it, you’ve earned it.”
I hear chairs scraping on wood in the dining room, Elizabeth’s voice.
“Please, Miss Skeeter. Miss Leefolt have a fit if she find you giving me cash,” Aibileen whispers.
“She doesn’t have to know.”
Aibileen looks up at me. The whites of her eyes are yellowed, tired. I know what she’s thinking.
“I already told you, I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that book, Miss Skeeter.”
I set the envelope on the counter, knowing I’ve made a terrible mistake.
“Please. Find you another colored maid. A young’un. Somebody... else.”
“But I don’t know any others well enough.” I am tempted to bring up the word friends, but I’m not that naïve. I know we’re not friends.